A Gifted Syllable
by Torchwood Prof
Summary: There was one thing Mr Harry Potter was interested in: murder. Which is what one would expect, as he is a private detective; quite a good one, in fact. But can he find out who killed Kingsley Shacklebolt? Only if he finds the missing Monopoly note . . .
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note:

The Professor: Hello, and welcome to Ambrose the Book-Wolf and the Torchwood Professor's story, "A Gifted Syllable". Bear with us on the title - all the titles in this series have some relevance to the plot.

Ambrose: Yes, they do indeed. Now, so we need not be detected not doing a disclaimer - Harry Potter and all other people, places, concepts, species', etc that are affiliated with the Harry Potter universe are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling, and of course all those guys at Warner Bros. who do the movies probably own a bit too . . . Any and all other references to outside TV shows, movies, cartoons, books, etc, are not in any way inclined toward encroaching copyright. There we are.

The Professor: _dons deer stalker and cap_ There we are indeed. Now, this is our first foray into gumshoe fiction, so wish us luck.

Ambrose: Enjoy the story - it's our first of this series, so if you like it (and say as such) we'll continue. Read and review, guys!

(Chapter 1 - Start)

_Hogwarts Teacher Found Murdered__  
Kingsley Maynard Shacklebolt was found dead on the floor of his quarters at a quarter to seven on the first of June, 1999, by Madam Poppy Pomfrey. Mr Shacklebolt, born on the sixth of August 1960, was thirty eight at the time of his death. Mr Shacklebolt was, in his lifetime, a world-renowned Auror and dueling champion. He later joined the staff of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher in September 1997. The pathologists report found the Killing Curse to be the cause of death. In response, the British Auror Front has announced they suspect foul play, and that they have called in specialist help -_

Kingsley Shacklebolt was indeed found dead on the first of June, 1999. He was indeed thirty eight at the time of his murder. He had indeed been a world-renowned Auror and dueling champion. He had indeed been murdered by the Killing Curse.  
However, the British Auror Front had not called in 'specialist' help until the day after Kingsley's body had been discovered. They had instead (after trying to solve the mystery themselves, but quickly realizing this sort of crime was beyond them, had chucked it) given the case to a group of seven private detectives - the best in Britain. Four of them had worked off of photographs and written reports of the crime scene, and three of them had worked on the crime scene itself.  
Not one of them had been able to divine a who, why or even a how - aside from knowing it was the Killing Curse - from the scene.

Thusly, Auror Commander Amelia Bones had called in the specialist help, who was well-known as having a sharp mind and quick eyes. The British Auror Front had resisted calling in this help because of one condition that the help always stipulated - they must be paid, and well. Very well.  
It is a well known fact that the British Auror Front, just as every other law enforcement agency throughout history has been, is very underfunded. They would not have been able to requisition this help had Amelia Bones been owed a favor by this help.

Amelia Bone had been Auror Commander for some ten years. Three years ago, she had helped the specialist help - one Harry James Potter - out of a very sticky situation. Therefore, he owed her a favor, which she called in.

Harry James Potter - notorious in the higher echelons of society for being able to solve nearly any crime very quickly, and so therefore very much so in demand - had been in Britain in 1996. The visit had ended very oddly - it had led to him owing three hundred and one bobbin wheels to Mundungus Fletcher, it had led to him owning three different flavored condoms (Strawberry, Melon and Banana Nut) and it had led to him meeting Ronald Bilius Weasley for the first time - though not, to Harry (and the narration's) relief, all at the same time.

This favor was called in, and this led to Harry James Potter and Ronald Bilius Weasley leaving a police-mans' ball in Marseiilles, France (after having foiled an attempt to detonate a planted bomb after the thirtieth conga shuffle step) and arriving in the Auror Commander's Office, in the Ministry of Magic, Britain, at three past one in the morning on the third of June 1999.

--

The arrival by Floo Network of Harry Potter is often succeeded by a wave of soot crashing over a carpet and a shape, roughly the size of a twenty four year old male, falling onto the afore-mentioned carpet. This is why, when Harry Potter arrived by Floo in Amelia Bones' office, Amelia did not fall back off of her chair or even jog her quill; she was far too accustomed to it to be surprised. She finished off her sentence on the felony report she had been filling in prior, and stood up, taking off her glasses and sliding them into her case. She walked around the desk that took up about an eighth of her office, which gave Harry plenty of time in which to get up and perform a cleaning charm on himself.

His arrival was followed by that of Ronald Weasley, who is far more graceful upon leaving a Floo fireplace (despite managing to trip over his own feet on a daily basis). Thus, when Amelia had reached the fireplace from which they had entered the office, two twenty four year old males stood before her in a adequate state of affairs.

This was hardly the first or second time that she had seen Harry Potter, but it was only the second time she had seen Ronald Weasley. This is why, in the two seconds silence that passed as the three accessed one another, she found her eyes drifting to Weasley.

He was quite a tall man, certainly much taller than his companion, with a shock of bright red-orange hair atop his head, giving off an impression of being rather like a carrot. His face had seemingly not yet grown into maturity, as a few remnants of baby fat remained in the cheeks and chin, and his skin was rather pink, with a great many freckles upon it (though Amelia knew this was his normal appearance, and not simply a result of physical exertion or sunbathing). This created a rather strange impression when one looked into his eyes, which were an almost crayon-like baby blue. He was attired rather unconcernedly; he had a battered grey (though she suspected it had been black at one point) denim Levi jacket over a simple red shirt. He had rather common trousers on, with a simple woolen belt going through the belt loops and which ended in a clamp buckle, and very badly-kept Nike trainers, which even had a few rips in the sides, which she assumed were quite old from the look of them. The overall impression she got was of an outfit put together simply because he liked the separate things, and wanted to wear them; he seemed not to care about his appearance, nor about anything in the office but her, as he looked at her quite inquisitively.

Then her gaze slid over to Harry Potter, who was, as a rule, always well dressed. He was a short man by nature, only an inch or so taller than the five foot four Amelia, and he had an artfully arranged chaos perched upon his head; his sable hair seemed never to quite settle down, so he simply liked to make it worse. His face was rather attractive, with angular and striking features, which gave one the impression of a starved aristocrat, even more so when one considered his pale complexion, which was impeccably blank of freckle or spot. This altogether strange face was brought together by almond shaped eyes - cat's eyes, Amelia had thought when she had met him - which were the most startling green she had ever seen. His attire was impeccable; he wore a white button up shirt, which had the top button undone, and a dark green tie, loosely done. He also wore a waistcoat, the same shade of green with understated golden spirals, and a similarly colored outer coat, which was at the moment undone. His trousers were very well-tailored, and fit his figure very well, but not so much as to be an invitation. They were held up by a black leather belt, which ended in quite an eye-catching buckle; a wolf's head howling at a full moon. His shoes were, however, quite baffling, when compared to his other apparel; they were a pair of black high-top All Star Converses, with the laces twice done, and were very clean indeed. The overall impression you got was of a man who, while not caring for fashion, did quite like to show people what he liked, and cared not one iota about what they might think the clothes were supposed to mean. However, he did care quite a bit about one thing; murder.

And that is why, at four past one on the third of June, 1999, Mr Harry James Potter asked Madame Amelia Jasmine Bones: "Who, how and when?"

(Chapter One - End)

The Professor: There we are then! Gumshoe has stuck with us!

Ambrose: Your puns get worse as the days go by. And take off that stupid hat.

The Professor: It isn't stupid! How dare you say such a thing! Why, I'm so angry I'll -

Ambrose: Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it . . . Well, that's all from us tonight. Read and review, guys!


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note:

The Professor: Hello, and welcome to the second chapter of our story, "A Gifted Syllable". That is, if any one is actually reading this . . . _tumbleweed goes by_

Ambrose: M'yes, we seem to have a distinct lack of readers. Quick, do a new chapter! Now, so we need not be sued for breaching copyright - Harry Potter and all other people, places, concepts, species', etc that are affiliated with the Harry Potter universe are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling, and of course all those guys at Warner Bros. who do the movies probably own a bit too . . . Any and all other references to outside TV shows, movies, cartoons, books, etc, are not in any way inclined toward encroaching copyright. There we are.

The Professor: OK then - here goes nothing! Enjoy the chapter, and read and review, guys!

(Chapter 1 - Start)

"Hello to you too, Harry," remarked Amelia dryly, eyeing the two men in front of her. Harry still had the bashfully-inquisitive expression with which he had announced his entrance upon his face, and Ron seemed to have lost interest in her, instead now surveying the room they were occupying.

It was rather large, about the size of a sitting room, with burnished brown wooden walls and inexpensive carpets, creating a strange duality of quality and not so much. There was a rather large window to their left, opposite the fireplace, which was at current showing a dully shining sun and bleak blue sky - quite an accurate reflection of British weather, thought Ron. Most of the room was taken up with souvenirs of Bones' Auror career - an ornate golden Foe Glass, in which the figures were murky and distorted, several brass instruments whistling in varying tones (one, Ron could swear, was lowly whistling the Great Escape theme) and a wall's worth of newspaper and report clippings, to name but a few. A large desk took up about an eighth of the office - a solid walnut affair, with a Dark Detector and separate mounds of paperwork nearly concealing a three tall stack of books and a collection of office stationary. It was, in short, just like any other senior civil servants office in the world.

Ron sat down in front of the desk, in an unremarkable red-leather seated chair, just as Harry did beside him (after politely offering to enter the office again) - Bones, however, remained standing, and the reason became apparent - she fished out a wafer thin manilla folder, and placed it in front of them both, before seating herself. Harry left the folder, instead looking at Bones with an eyebrow raised, so Ron pulled it toward him and flipped open the cover, which read 'Shacklebolt K., Murder Investigation'.

There were only two bundles of paper, each stapled to its respective pile very neatly. Ron thumbed the two, as if looking for any more documents, and came up short, so he looked at the first pile of paper - it was a pathologist's report, with messy handwriting filling in just a few of the many boxes. His eyes flicked through the paper, his mind catching only the relevant details, which were as follows.

Shacklebolt had suffered a sudden instant failure of, amongst other various components of the body, all vital organs at the exact same time - a symptom which applied very easily to the Killing Curse, and not much else. The untouched nature of the body, apart from a few bruises which seemed to be afflicted when Shacklebolt was already dead (and therefore probably the result of falling to the floor) seemed to indicate much the same as the internal organs, which the coroner had concurred; the cause of death was Avada Kedavra.

There were no other notes of importance, simply a description of the man and of the expression on his face post-mortem - a look of relaxation, of overall peace, which indicated he hadn't seen his attacker, or suspected that they would go on to murder him.

Ron finished reading the report, and concluded that the victim had either known his attacker and been at ease with them, or had been snuck up on - the latter was far more unlikely, as Shacklebolt had an excellent sense of hearing, or so Bones said as she explained to Harry what the report had implied.

"- there's simply no way he could have been snuck up on, Harry - I knew Shacklebolt for five years, fought alongside him even, and he could hear a pin drop with his ears clogged, I'm sure of it -" Harry nodded, seeming to agree, and so Ron, safe in the knowledge that anything he'd miss would be relayed back to him, began to look at the second sheaf of paper, which was far thicker than the report.

The first page was a written note from the Auror captain on scene, which relayed that he had inspected the scene himself and had been unable to come to a conclusion, and that he had questioned the other eleven people who had been in the school from five o'clock onwards as to their whereabouts.

The list ran as follows:  
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore  
Severus Snape  
Remus John Lupin (a hastily scribbled _werewolf_ lay next to this name)  
Sirius Orion Black  
Poppy Pomfrey  
Argus Filch (there too was a scribble here; _S? _S? What did that mean?)  
Pomona Sprout  
Minerva McGonagall  
Rolanda Hooch  
Irma Pince  
Hermione Jean Granger

Most of the names meant nothing to Ron, and the scribbled notes were, respectively, galling and intriguing, so he handed it nonchalantly into Harry's open hand, who had sensed he had finished the document and began to flick through it, and the short two page files that followed, detailing the ladies and gentlemen mentioned. He felt his eyebrows crease, and he looked at Bones, pondering how exactly a murder could occur, and so little be found.

"Is that all there is?" he queried, still slightly underwhelmed by the folder. Bones nodded, and Ron blew out an irritated breath, before voicing the thought that ran through his mind. "And your Auror's found nothing?' Again she nodded, and Ron scratched the bridge of his nose, before unavoidably asking "Nothing? I mean . . . not even a hair, or . . .?" She nodded again, a slightly pinched expression gracing her face, and Ron thought he had best leave that conversation alone.

"Obviously, one of these eleven people was the murderer -" Here she was interrupted by Harry. "How do you know that? Hogwarts is a big, and rather old, castle - the front door is hardly the only entrance." Here she shook her head, the pinched expression not leaving her face. "We had thought along those lines, and we've had all of the secret passages scanned, double-scanned and even Residued for any sign of intrusion. Nothing came up." Harry, unconcerned by the snippy reply, nodded absently, still flicking through the report idly.

"And if I find the murderer, and some evidence to get them jailed - " "Then your favor is repaid, and you need not see me again." Harry smiled ironically "Now then, Madame Bones - in my business, I never need not see anyone." A flicker of a grin fled over Bones' face, before she announced "So, you'll take the job then?"

Harry stood, his hands still clasping the manilla folder, and Ron followed him. He extended his other hand, and remarked "Help in need is help indeed." She clasped his hand with hers, before breaking the contact and reaching for a bowl of Floo Powder. "If you need any special equipment, you only need ask the on-duty Auror captain, and he'll relay it to me. I'll have it sent to the Three Broomsticks, which is incidentally where you'll be staying - free of charge of course, Rosemerta is a very patriotic woman - and the same goes for any evidence or information you think I should receive. I'll just confirm it with Rosemerta and Dumbledore now." She then bent down by the fireplace, and placed a call through.

Harry leaned closer to Ron, and asked quietly "Are you coming with me on this one?" Ron nodded, hardly affronted by this question - on a few occasions during the last three years, he had sat a few cases out to settle his own affairs, to which Harry had been very accommodating. He cleared his throat quietly as Bones finished Floo calling, and Harry leaned back. She offered Ron the bowl, which he accepted with a nod.

Behind him, he heard Harry slide the folder into his inside coat pocket (it had a space expansion charm on it, as most wizard-tailored clothes do) and he grabbed a small amount of the glittering green powder before passing the small clay pot to Harry. He threw the powder in the fireplace with a practiced flick, shouting "The Three Broomsticks!" and stepping into the billowing flame, drawing in his elbows and tucking his head into his chest as he began to spin.

(Chapter 2 - End)

The Professor: There we are then! Chapter two - finito!

Ambrose: Quite. Now, that's all from us tonight. Make sure you leave some feedback - it's very much appreciated. Read and review, guys!


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note:

The Professor: Hello, and welcome to the third chapter of our story, "A Gifted Syllable". Anyone reading this? 17 visitors, no reviews . . .

Ambrose: Quick, do a new chapter (again)! We must attract readers! Oh yeah, disclaimer - Harry Potter and all other people, places, concepts, species', etc that are affiliated with the Harry Potter universe are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling, and of course all those guys at Warner Bros. who do the movies probably own a bit too . . . Any and all other references to outside TV shows, movies, cartoons, books, etc, are not in any way inclined toward encroaching copyright. Done, done, done! Now quick - chapter!

The Professor: Here we go! Enjoy the chapter, and read and review, guys!

(Chapter 3 - Start)

Some time ago, around 887 A.D, Hogwarts castle was built by the four greatest wizards of the age: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin. The castle was then set up as a school to educate witches and wizards all over the British Isles. As such a hothouse for magical energy and teenage aggression, it has inevitably had quite a few bloody incidents in its thousand year history.

The murder of Kingsley M. Shacklebolt, while the latest in a long line of deaths that had taken place at Hogwarts, was certainly not like any of these other 'incidents'. It was not an accident, unlike most of the deaths; it had not been a spur of the moment action, either, and so it was a doubly interesting event for Harry James Potter - who did _so_ enjoy a good old-fashioned murder plot, especially if it had a certain newness to it. ("_Think of it as a resurrection of an old tradition!"_ The words sprung into his head)

This interest had a most unexpected effect on Mr Potter - for the first time in seven months, he did not trip out of the Floo and onto a carpet. Instead, he heaved himself out of the sooty, vertical fire tunnel that most people called a fireplace, and proceeded to brush himself off, noting Ron was doing the same in front of him. As he became tired of ruffling his clothes, he drew his wand and cast another cleaning spell upon himself (absently reflecting on the pro's and con's of casting a cleaning charm that would stay and keep him clean all day).

Fenrir Greyback, the duty office for the Auror morning shift, noted this all with an expression on his face that closely resembled that of a police constable who looked after the holding cells on a Saturday night anywhere in England; carefully schooled impatience and acceptance of various quirks of his charges. He had his arms folded as he inspected the two men who had just stumbled out of the Floo; so far he was less than impressed with the specialist help Amelia had sent (though the shorter one sent his inner wolf pacing, for a reason he couldn't quite identify) and conveyed as much with the tapping of his foot.

He was very tall man, taller than both of the men in front of him, with mellow brown, streaked with silver, hair that fell about his face like a mane. His face was rough and edgy, not what one would call conventionally handsome, and his skin was the color of pale cinnamon, with a smattering of similarly colored stubble upon his chin and around his mouth, in the faint outline of a goatee. This, combined with the swirling amber and yellow that made up his eyes, gave him almost the look of a tamed animal. He was attired in the basic Auror uniform; a simple, so-dark-as-to-be-black purple robe and trousers, which had a beaten brown belt going through the loops and which ended in a shabbily done up buckle. He also wore over-used Vans trainers, which were quite large so as to accommodate his size eleven-and-a-half feet.

He had been in the B.A.F for some two years now, after having been captured and sequestered in a werewolf rehabilitation centre for having bitten seven separate people from 1985 to 1993. He had gone in a slavering feral, and come out a grumpy but functional member of society (but only if he took those bloody mood pills - they messed up his head, those things did, he was sure, and not in the way they were supposed to). By grumpy, one meant that he fell into a bad mood at the slightest provocation, and only found his way out after a stiff drink. This had led to some of the Ministry desk-jockeys nicknaming him 'I'll huff and puff, and then I'll fall down' or the Huffer for short. Of course, he had never been called this to his face.

"You two the detectives Bones sent?" he asked gruffly - his vocal chords alternated between gruff, rumbly, growling and coughing, as the result of having howled at the moon for thirty of his thirty three years - and Harry nodded, sending him a polite smile, while Ron seemed to be sizing him up and coming up short. "Are you the Auror captain?" he asked, with a note of incredulity in his barely mature voice. Fenrir began to get agitated.

"Do I look like the bloody Auror captain?" he said, sending an unimpressed glance at Ron. "I'm the duty officer; I'm supposed to make sure you get set up in here, then escort you to the castle - escort, I ask you, got better things to do than look after a little twit barely outta the cradle -" He trailed off as he said the last bit, sending a scornful glance in the general direction of the castle, then turning back to the pair.

The shorter one (Fenrir peeled back the sleeve on his left wrist, where he had scribbled their last names and hair color in case he forgot) who was called Potter had wandered over to the bar counter, where Madam Rosemerta was serving an elderly gentleman with the smell of burnt candyfloss around him a glass of Firewhiskey. He was chatting to her, seemingly quite amiably if one was judging by the ease with which the two were gesturing with their hands, and Fenrir gave a satisfied huff. Why should he have to set up the newbies peanut tab? Good.

The other one, Weasley according to his wrist, was staring over into the corner of the inn. Fenrir craned his neck to follow his line of sight, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The idiot was looking like a lovestruck puppy at Gabrielle Delacour - who, according to the others in the small group of Aurors who had been left behind, was more haughty than Notre Dame bell tower. That'd be a fun one to watch; he'd taken an instant disliking to the carrot-top.

The other one twisted his upper body around from the counter-top and indicated to Fenrir he was wrapping it up. He gave a brisk nod, and tapped the redhead on the shoulder. He spun around so fast that Fenrir thought he might be motion sick, and had a vaguely abashed look on his face, which soon turned to realization as Potter came back over. "We ready to go then?" he asked, and as Potter opened his mouth, Fenrir cut in.

"Damn straight we are, now let's move." he said, starting to clear a path to the exit, an objective easily achieved by his formidable girth. The other two followed in his wake, and they just caught the door as it was about to close, Fenrir already out on the High street. They left the door to close, and began the walk up to Hogwarts castle.

(Chapter 3 - End)

The Professor: And that's that. Chapter three - done.

Ambrose: Yep. That's all from us this update. Make sure you leave some feedback - we really do need it, and it's very much appreciated. Read and review, guys!


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note:

Ambrose: Hello, and welcome to the fourth chapter of our story, "A Gifted Syllable". Anyone reading this? 5 visitors - bit bleak - and no reviews . . .

The Professor: DefCon 1! We must attract readers! New text must be inputted! Oh yeah, disclaimer - Harry Potter and all other people, places, concepts, species', etc that are affiliated with the Harry Potter universe are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling, and of course all those guys at Warner Bros. who do the movies probably own a bit too . . . Any and all other references to outside TV shows, movies, cartoons, books, etc, are not in any way inclined toward encroaching copyright. Done, done, done! Now quick - chapter!

Ambrose: Here we go! Enjoy the chapter, and read and review, guys!

(Chapter 4 - Start)

The road that led up to Hogwarts was paved all the way through Hogsmeade high street - crazy paving, Harry reflected with a glimmer of a smile. Behind him, Ron was thinking much the same, although probably not for the same reasons; in the past five minutes alone he'd tripped up three times. The paving was even worse than in London . . . Ahead of them was Fenrir, who seemed more intent on the faraway castle, and on reaching it before the other two, if his rapid pace was anything to go by.

Harry and Ron increased their speed to compensate for the longer strides that Fenrir managed, and the paving started to trail off, with only a few stones flung half-hearted into the earth, turning into a dirt trail as they reached the front gates of Hogwarts. The gates were tall and imposing, with the adjoined walls adding to the impression of a medieval castle. They showed no sign of rust, or even a creak as they swung open in expectation of the three. Magic was really quite nice, Ron reflected (rather unoriginally).

Now that they had entered the grounds, the features of the school became readily apparent. In the year of 1999, Hogwarts was perhaps the most commonly known magical establishment, and the one that fit most closely to what people assumed such places would look like. The Quidditch pitch came first, to their left; a large wooden affair that was perhaps a mile in area (Harry dimly reflected that a mile was the minimum size for a pitch and three the maximum) with stridently colored bleachers poking up from the ground like ivy spokes. They were dwarfed by the three brass hoops, which still reflected a glimmer or light even at this time of the evening.

A poky hut lay to their left, with a swaying tree (swaying? There wasn't any wind, thought Harry) a few yards from it. It was shaped almost like a teapot, with an almost circular body (the living room, perhaps) supporting a leaning chimney. The windows were dark at this moment, and not a wisp of smoke came from that spout. Harry remembered Amelia mentioning that the groundskeeper, a man called Rubeus Hagrid, was in Romania at the moment, though he couldn't quite remember what he was doing. Beyond the hut was the impenetrable black of the Forbidden Forest (though Harry had it on good authority that many a lusty couple stole out there to play out some perverted fantasy - he chuckled to himself) and Harry reflected he'd be glad not to venture into it.

Then came the castle itself, and Harry felt his throat catch. The sheer magic of the gargantuan castle could be felt even at this distance, and he drew a deep breath in, swearing he could feel the slight tingle of magic in his lungs. The pictures most certainly didn't do the school justice; it was a keep, an imposing palace in which one sat and considered your kingdom - a place of Albion and Pendragon, Harry thought (he'd been a sucker for the Arthurian legends as a child). There were a few towers sticking out of the top, and Harry was surprised to note that one of them seemed to be smoking quite a bit. This tower, however, was only one of the many holes in the castle through which light shone through - it was lit up quite impressively.

Next to the castle were a collection of what seemed to be glass huts, perhaps fourteen by eight, in a neat row. Harry guessed, from the few peaks of foliage and what seemed to be a large tree root coming from one of them (and leading to the swaying tree they were just passing through a slight elevation) that these were the greenhouses. None of these had the lights on either, but what seemed to be wafts of heat came from a few of them - the magical equivalent of paraffin heats, evidently.

The three were now nearly at the entrance, and Harry was surprised at the sheer size of the door that confronted him - surely this _was_ a school, right? Not a military academy perhaps . . . Fenrir strode up the few grey stone steps that led up to the door and rapped on the nearest wooden slat (Harry winced in sympathy - he could imagine the sheer toughness of thousand year old wood tearing away cinnamon skin - wait a minute, since when did he -). He waited a few seconds, and with quite an impressive snarl upon his face, leaned into attack the wood again. Ron, however, spared him the trouble and simply rapped using his wand, which instantly made the doors swing open.

Fenrir turned the snarl upon him, and had Harry not been there, the contest between Fenrir and Ron to make the most forbidding face might've carried on all night. Luckily, another person popped their head out of the door and gave him an excuse to speak. "We're the specialists sent by Commander Bones? Are you expecting us?"

Although Harry couldn't tell in the darkness, he could swear he saw the sparkle of pearly white teeth, as the head replied "Dr and Nurse Livingstone, I presume?" Harry's response, which might've been delivered with an ironic grin, was stalled by Fenrir growling out "Enough of the playing around, thanks. It's friggin' dark out here, and bloody cold, so you can swap _witty retorts_ in side. Now move." The head nodded, and the door swung open. As Fenrir stepped inside, Ron and Harry shared a look of everyday surprise; the surprise one experienced whenever something slightly odd happened, like when a bag of pistachio nuts opened and spilled inside your briefcase, or in this case when someone who was evidently very temperamental shows disdain for seemingly everything so far.

Noting to himself to keep an eye on Fenrir, Harry, then Ron, stepped into the warmth and light of the Hogwarts entrance hall. The moment Harry entered the hall, he was immediately set upon by the man who'd greeted him (the voice had been masculine, after all).

He was a slightly short man it seemed, about two centimeters taller than Harry (Harry had learnt not to be offended that everyone was taller than him) and two inches shorter than Ron, and he had a well-combed but otherwise ungroomed mop of almost sandy-blonde hair. His face was softly handsome with the features of unattractive boys who grow into men who hold more of a animal magnetism than anything else, and also gave the impression of wily old wolf in it's stark lines, even more so when one considered his rather mellow complexion, which was crisscrossed here and there with pink-white lines. This altogether attractive face was centered by eyes which were the familiar color of amber and yellow, that of a were's. His attire was tasteful yet understated; he wore a beige button up shirt, which had the two top buttons undone, and similarly colored tie, in the state it reaches after long day of work is done. He also wore an identically beige outer coat, which was at the moment undone. His trousers were slightly tatty, but in good choice, and fit his figure well, indicating he liked to look good (or perhaps to be liked, no matter in which way?). They were held up by a black leather belt, which ended in a simple clamp buckle. His shoes were that of teachers everywhere; well-wore black leather, laced and tightly tied. The overall impression you got was of a man was very tidy and liked having a sense of coordination - in clothes, at least.

He held his hand out to Harry, his eyes looking furtively up and down his figure in a manner which was quite bewildering. He introduced himself. "Lupin. Remus Lupin".

(Chapter 4 - End)

Ambrise: And that's that. Chapter four - done.

The Professor: It is indeed. That's all from us this update. Make sure you leave some feedback - we really do need it, and it's very much appreciated. Read and review, guys!


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note:

The Professor: Hello, and welcome to the fifth chapter of our story, "A Gifted Syllable". Celebrate! Our first two reviews - and both positive! Oh, we are blessed.

Ambrose: The God of Potter literature has smiled upon us. OK, first to Xhoxho - this sort of input is exactly what we need. Feel free to make those suggestions. Thanks for reviewing. Now to kareem33 - well, the second character slot is - for this series - going to indicate the secondary narrator - who is, in this fic, Ron. Next one'll be Greyback, and so on. Sorry about the confusion. And here's hoping the solution will be satisfying for all our readers. Oh yeah, disclaimer - Harry Potter and all other people, places, concepts, species', etc that are affiliated with the Harry Potter universe are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling, and of course all those guys at Warner Bros. who do the movies probably own a bit too . . . Any and all other references to outside TV shows, movies, cartoons, books, etc, are not in any way inclined toward encroaching copyright. Done, done and done!

The Professor: Here we go! Enjoy the chapter, and read and review, guys!

(Chapter 5 - Start)

Harry held out his hand and grasped Remus' in a firm grip. He shook his hand, Remus equalling him, and then let relaxed his clasp, letting Remus shake Ron's hand. He probably would've shaken Fenrir's as well, were it not for the almost insulted huff he gave when Remus turned to him, and so instead thrust it into his trouser pocket, his other hand soon following. He seemed on the cusp of talking once more, when another man shouted from the top of the staircase "Moony! Hogging the newbies to yourself, for shame!" Harry could barely keep his eyes on the rapid shape sliding down the banister and dismounting it once he reached the bottom, and when he had blinked, the man had put an arm around Remus' shoulders with practiced ease.

He was a rather tall man, nearly three inches taller than Ron so there was no point in even guessing on his height compared to Harry's own. He had an obviously well-groomed and taken-care of head of flowing black, thick locks of hair. His face was regal and full, handsome, with the features of those who have only grown better-looking in age, and gave off an air almost that of a wealthy, reckless playboy - the image only completed by a goatee, which he seemed to have spent a long time cultivating. This haughty appearance was, however, overshadowed by eyes which were the stormy gray of sea after a storm, the white of which seemed to take up most of his sockets. His clothing was quite obviously tailored to fit his body, and made of recognizably expensive material; he wore a dark blue button up shirt, done all the way up, and similarly colored tie (which had a few golden spirals embroidered upon it), impeccably done. He also wore a pin striped outer robe, which was at the moment undone. His trousers were seemingly made of Actromantula silk, dyed black, and fit his figure like a second skin. They were held up by a black leather belt, which ended in an ornate buckle of the Black family crest (though with the motto plate conspicuously absent). His shoes were dark brown (Italian, Harry assumed) and buckled tightly. The impression you got was of a man who liked to look good (Harry supposed he looked even better to eyes not clinically, ruthlessly assessing him) and who seemed to have plenty of attitude - and money, blindingly obviously he had money - to make him interesting.

He was grinning at all of them, a simply amused grin (almost dog-like in it's frankness) beaming around at them, and was saying to Ron "So, you guys those specialists Amy sent?" Ron seemed glad to have some animated company (Remus and Fenrir seemed to prefer silence - perhaps a lycan thing - and Harry was quite the introvert around those he didn't know) and held out a hand, which Sirius accepted immediately and started pumping up and down enthusiastically, introducing himself to the man. "Ron, Ron Weasley."

"Black, Sirius Black" the man - Sirius - said in a faux-suave voice and released his hand, before offering it to Harry, who took it carefully, looking into Sirius' eyes. He said, quite politely, "Harry Potter. An honor to meet you, Lord Black." Sirius had a half-amused, half-confused smile upon his face at Harry's almost solemn tone, and replied, much more calmly, "And you, Mr Potter - by the way, we don't stand on ceremony here, so just call me Sirius." Harry gave a deferring nod, with a half-smile upon his face, but was soon interrupted by Fenrir calling out "Captain Jones!" and drawing their attention to a pair of women descending the stairs - the conventional way, this time.

The one on the left of the stairs - Captain Jones, Harry presumed, from the way her eyes leapt to the group - was about average height, with rosy pinks cheeks evident even from this distance, and light black hair, which was streaked by slightly lighter hairs here and there. She had sharp violet eyes, which matched the Auror uniform she wore; a dark purple robe and trousers, (lighter than Fenrir's, signifying her higher rank) with the trousers clinging to her form, requiring no belt. The one on the right of the case, however, drew Harry's eye.

She was around five foot four, and so was about Harry's height. She had light brown bushy hair, which had the characteristics of having been straightened without result. It fell about her face in a most alluring fashion, like a volcano of silky brown. Her face was soft and pale, fitting almost religiously to the conventional way of being beautiful, and her skin was lightly flushed (seemingly naturally), with a few signs of slightly oversized front teeth having been resized. This, combined with the cherry wood brown of her eyes, gave her almost the look of the alluring peasant girl of fairy tale. She was clothed in the simple cream business suit look of most working women, complete with matching trousers and shoes. She fit the clothes well, it had to be said, and the overall impression you got was of a woman who preferred simple appearances, which were easy to maintain and made it plain to see how they took the world.

Sirius and Remus' face lit up upon the one on the right, and she sent a smile at them both, while Captain Jones simply nodded to Fenrir and finished descending the stairs, stopping in front of Harry and Ron, before introducing herself. "Captain Hestia Jones, British Auror Front. Glad to have you with us." Harry took the outstretched hand, and, gesturing at himself and Ron with his other, said "Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, freelance detectives. Glad we could be here." She nodded again, and the four - including Fenrir, who seemed to have entertained himself by gnawing on his fingernails - turned to Remus, Sirius and the as of yet unidentified woman.

The three were exchanging deep kisses, and half of the group - Ron and Hestia - felt their faces flush and looked away. Harry and Fenrir simply exchanged bored glances, and cleared both their throats at the same time, which drew apart the three. Sirius seemed simply smug, while Remus looked slightly apologetic. The woman, however, had two spots of red in the centre of her cheeks, and shrugged a little sheepishly.

"Now that you're quite finished, perhaps you'd like to introduce yourself - you know, to the Auror's and the detectives who happen to be in charge of arresting people, and who happen not to like to have their time -" Fenrir was cut off, loudly, by Harry, who said diplomatically " - otherwise occupied. Miss?" The woman stepped forward, and gave extended her hand to Harry, who took it and kissed the back of it, winking at her and the other two men before releasing it.

The woman grinned at him, and said "I think I'm going to like you, Mr Potter. Hermione Granger."

(Chapter 5 - End)

The Professor: And that's that. Chapter five - done.

Ambrose: Yep, that's it from us this update. Make sure you leave some feedback - we really do need it, and it's very much appreciated. Thanks again to kareem33 and Xhoxho. Read and review, guys!


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note:

Ambrose: Hello, and welcome to the sixth chapter of our story, "A Gifted Syllable". Anyone reading this? 12 visitors - little bit less bleak, but the principle is the important thing - and no new reviews . . .

The Professor: If I didn't know better, I'd say robots had replaced our readers! Death to the body-snatching robots! Oh yeah, disclaimer - Harry Potter and all other people, places, concepts, species', etc that are affiliated with the Harry Potter universe are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling, and of course all those guys at Warner Bros. who do the movies probably own a bit too . . . Any and all other references to outside TV shows, movies, cartoons, books, etc, are not in any way inclined toward encroaching copyright.

Ambrose: Here we are then. Enjoy the chapter, and read and review, guys!

(Chapter 6 - Start)

"I should think we would all come to like Mr Potter and Mr - Weasley, was it not? - if they can solve this most terrible and perplexing mystery which confronts us." This came too from the top of the balcony, as well as not one but three pairs of shoes descending the stairs. The now group of seven found their eyes drawn to these new arrivals.

The one on the far left was a sallow skinned man, about average height, with greased, shining black hair folding over sunken cheeks. His face was was most unwelcoming, what with quite a large, almost beaked nose taking center stage over most of his other features, and his skin was the color of curdled milk, with not a hair upon it. He looked the archetypal vampire, especially when one looked into his eyes, which were as black, dark and forbidding as tunnels, an image only complimented by his attire. He was clothed in almost colonially black robes and a cape which seemed to billow as if alive. His shoes, too, were black leather and buckled, just like Remus' had been, though very much more clean and polished than Lupin's.

The one on the right was an old, though certainly not grizzled woman, with an almost comically large witches hat obscuring any view of her hair. She had quite a severe appearance, what with her seemingly-always pinched lips and narrowed eyes, and the pair of spectacles perched upon her nose seemed only to accentuate the sharpness of her glances. She too seemed to represent a Wizarding archetype, this time the old, stern witch. She was possibly of Scots descent, Harry reflected, as his eyes were drawn to the robes she wore, which bore a tartan pattern and obscured most of her figure as well as footwear, and some of the fire Harry had come to associate with Scots wizards during his time as a detective seemed to spark into her eyes at the sight of Fenrir at the foot of the stairs.

The one in the middle, however, was an oddity, but an expected one at that; after all, what Wizard did not know of Albus Dumbledore? He was the same height as the woman, perhaps an inch shorter than the man, and wearing the most ridiculous clothes Harry had seen in his entire life; robes if dark brown with orange spirals adorning the majority of the material, and a laughably perched wizards hat upon his head. Dumbledore seemed rather unwilling to cut his facial hair, or perhaps his hair period, for his most impressive beard had to be tied in a ponytail which reached his waist. His bright blue eyes, which shone out like beacons amongst the multitude of white, seemed to twinkle happily at the group, and given how he'd addressed them, perhaps the emotion were to be taken seriously - he had been the one to make the comment, after all.

In the time which Harry had taken to inspect the three, the three had descended the staircase, and were reacting in various ways to other members of the party - the man seemed to be quite happy glaring at Remus and Sirius (and seemed to desire to glare at Harry also, though restraining himself), an action mirrored by the woman, who instead shared it with Fenrir. Dumbledore alone seemed to realize that there were more than two members of the party, and was sharing a benevolent smile with the rest of the group.

"I wouldn't place any bets yet, Professor Dumbledore. A situation like this one is bound to take a while to divine." Harry said, all the while sizing up those who he remembered from the list. Dumbledore didn't seem like the sort to kill a distinguished Auror, and certainly not one he'd taught, then invited back to teach. But perhaps if Shacklebolt had been involved in questionable activities . . . A laughable prospect to be sure, but one that would need eliminating.

And the women - Minerva McGonagall, she introduced herself, and Harry matched her up to the file he'd read - too was an option. She most certainly had left a long life, and no-one ever escapes the trials and tribulations people put in front of you unscathed - maybe an instance of blackmail had unleashed her temper? Another unlikely option.

But when one came to the trio of Remus, Sirius and Hermione, a whole wealth of options unfolded themselves - an affair, perhaps, of Shacklebolt and one of the trio (the name in that context took on a whole new meaning for Harry) and then, in a feat of jealousy - Avada Kedavra? Or maybe a simple revenge for something enacted during the school years of Shacklebolt, Lupin and Black? To hide a secret? (_Two can keep a secret if one is dead_, thought Harry) Or a simple grudge taken too far? There was certainly potential there.

And finally - Snape. The unknown element. A previous Muggle-baiting offense and one count of attempted ABH toward a Diagon Alley Muggle rights preacher - though Harry suspected it had been because the preacher had accosted him quite suddenly, and Snape looked like the man to break under the slightest provocation - perhaps that was it? He too had been in school with Shacklebolt - and Lupin and Black too, once Harry came to think of it.

No definites yet, but a number of options to eliminate - just how he liked it.

"Well -" said Harry, clapping his hands together (which made the majority of the group jump in surprise) and rubbing them as if to gain warmth " - my next port of call shall be the crime scene. Did the last Auror captain perhaps leave behind some equipment?" He directed this last statement at Captain Jones, who nodded and said to Fenrir "Greyback - grab the Analysis equipment from the Hall and bring it up to the crime scene. Then you can come back to me and - " She seemed to want to continue from there (probably to detailing a lot of grunt work for the werewolf), but Harry had other plans, skillfully inserting himself into the conversation.

"Actually, Captain Jones, I'd prefer it if you could have Duty Officer Greyback assigned to myself and Mr Weasley for the duration of the investigation?" She looked baffled at the request, and Fenrir distinctly bewildered, so Harry continued. "Often during cases such as these, I need someone not only to serve as a secondary sounding board, but also someone who happens to know things that I may not about the circumstances surrounding the events that took place. Officer Greyback seems to fulfill those requirements most admirably, so if I may have your leave?"

Jones didn't take long to come to a decision, and said "Alright then - but if I see you, at any point, slacking off, Greyback, it's going to mean demotion." She aimed this last part quite obviously at Fenrir, and Harry swore he saw McGonagall's lips become slightly less thin, as he nodded quite vigorously. She looked to Harry, and he nodded, then indicated to Ron to follow him and Fenrir to grab the equipment.

_And this is where we separate the men from the boys_, thought Harry as he ascended the stairs.

(Chapter 6 - End)

The Professor: And that's that. Chapter six - done.

Ambrose: Yep, that's it from us this update. Make sure you leave some feedback - we really do need it, and it's very much appreciated. Thanks again to kareem33 and Xhoxho - "Thank you, come again!" Read and review, guys!


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note:

Ambrose: Hello, and welcome to the seventh chapter of our story, "A Gifted Syllable". Anyone reading this? Ah, well - we enjoy writing this at any rate, so we'll keep on moving on.

The Professor: Moving it on like Halo Jones (which we command you to go out and read now - Ambrose now has a crush on Toby because of it) Oh yeah, disclaimer - Harry Potter and all other people, places, concepts, species', etc that are affiliated with the Harry Potter universe are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling, and of course all those guys at Warner Bros. who do the movies probably own a bit too . . . Any and all other references to outside TV shows, movies, cartoons, books, etc, are not in any way inclined toward encroaching copyright.

Ambrose: Here we are then. Enjoy the chapter, and read and review, guys!

(Chapter 7 - Start)

Harry inspected the neat wreck that had been, once upon a time, Kingsley Shacklebolt's room, and felt his eyes narrow as he knelt down. He could tell Ron was doing the same - or was, before being interrupted by Fenrir coming into the room with a large clunk. Harry nodded, not even turning his head around - that would be the equipment.

"Anything else, _Sir _Potter?" Fenrir sneered as he backed up against one of the tastefully decorated walls, rattling a framed picture of Shacklebolt's Auror Academy Graduation day as he did, and Harry slowly turned his head to him, his eyes enquiring. A snide note entered Greyback's voice as he elaborated, "Your butler is ready and waiting." A thin black eyebrow crept up Harry's face, and Fenrir felt the small vat of petulant anger evaporate inside of him.

"If you're quite finished playing 'The Wronged Wolf', perhaps you can tell me all you know about what happened here on the first. Don't leave anything out, not even if it's something that can't possibly factor into the investigation." Harry explained calmly as he continued to stare at Fenrir, who huffed (for no reason even he could discern) but began talking anyway.

"Since all the Auror's were busy talking 'evidence' at the scene, the duty captain - Liam Scrimgeour - told me to collect the statements for every one in the castle on the first. Is there anyone in particular you want to know about?" Harry seemed to consider this for a long moment, and said, "We'd be better off eliminating the least likely suspects. Let's go with those with no links whatsoever with Shacklebolt - erm, Pince?"

Looking up at the ceiling for a second to recollect the statement in question, Fenrir recited, near word-for-word, Pince's alibi. "Said she was in the library stacking up some overdue books on Cerebral Anatomy. Made some prickly quip about it not being brain surgery - her not being the murderer, she meant - and then she started going on about the caretaker, Filch coming by at around the time of death. I checked the aisle she said she'd been stacking - all in order, down to the circulation marker's having reservations on them - and then I checked with Filch. He not only corroborated the statement, but went on to say he'd been cleaning up some explosion in the dungeon's previously. Sides, couldn't have been either of 'em."

Harry quirked an eyebrow, and asked, "What makes you say that?" Fenrir frowned at him, and continued. "What, apart from the fact Filch's a Squib and Pince only knows what a wand is because it makes a good substitute for a Black and Decker?" He sniffed, and shrugged. "Why, nothing at all." Harry narrowed his eyes, and stood up, before turning to Fenrir with an irritated look on his face.

"I just got you out of doing grunt work not fit for a monkey to do, so the least you can do is show some bloody respect - you do know what respect is, don't you? It's only what I've been showing to you since I met you! Grow the hell up, or you can go and break your back with Jones." Harry looked like he was almost seething, and Fenrir was surprised. Most people didn't bother to react to his attitude (if only because he was a werewolf) and those who did often didn't try to correct it.

Feeling contrite, Fenrir looked past Harry at a footstool, and nodded. Harry nodded back, smoothing down his jacket reflexively, and Ron, who had been watching the confrontation expectantly, resumed digging out equipment from the case. Turning back to the room, Harry dug out his notebook, and made a show of crossing out two of the names that were written there. As he did so, sliding his leather bound notebook back into his shirt pocket, he noticed a speck of brown on the carpet beneath his feet.

He felt his brow furrow, and held out a hand to Ron, saying all the while, "Pass me a pair of tweezers and a test tube?" Ron, knowing Harry had found something, passed him the equipment from out of the multitude in the case, before moving closer, bumping into Fenrir as he did so. They shared a glare, before Harry kneeling over in front of them and making a sound of expectant triumph distracted them.

"What've you found?" Ron could not help but ask as Harry stood back up, seemingly clutching something in the miniature prongs. Fenrir made an interested sound, and leaned forward to get a clearer view of whatever it was. Harry carefully dropped the hair in the test tube, popping the cork into it carefully, and holding it in front of his two companions.

It was a wispy thin hair - neither Ron or Fenrir could see how Harry had managed to spot it amongst all of the carpet, but apparently he had - and had a light brown, almost golden color to it. Harry began to absently note it's usefulness as evidence or a lead, "No follicle on the end, so we won't be able to determine from that. But judging by the color, I'd say we're dealing with - " " - Either Lupin, Granger or McGonagall, since they're the only ones with hair that color." finished Ron for his friend.

"Or Pomfrey." added Fenrir, still inspecting the hair with his lupine sharp eyes. There was something rather off about the way it seemed to stay in a very straight, defined shape - most hairs, in his experience (in front of a mirror, most often) seemed to curl up, yet this one seemed conspicuously rigorous. Harry, however, seemed not to notice his statement, his eyes instead caught by something underneath one of the chairs.

"Can you guys see that?" said Harry, indicating to the chair space. Ron immediately made his way over to the chair and began to feel underneath the chair for whatever it was Harry had spotted, having snagged a latex glove from the equipment case when digging through it. He exclaimed slightly - seemingly as his hand came into contact with something, before pulling out what looked like -

"A Basset's Allsort? That's your evidence?" enquired Fenrir incredulously. Ron sent him a scornful glance as he began to elaborate. "It isn't a piece of licorice, numbskull. It's a piece of vine wood, with some sort of string going through the middle - I think it might be a Kindling Wand." Harry slapped himself upside the head - seemingly for not having recognized the wood - while Fenrir simply looked confused.

"What's a Kindling Wand?" Harry seemed enraptured by the promising lead the wand fragment gave them, but answered still. "One of those limited-use wands - you buy it from a shop, it molds itself to what your best wand would be, and then cracks after a few uses. Quite popular in mainland Europe for murders - they're damn near impossible to spot, because of the small parts they splinter in to. We're lucky this piece is so large, otherwise we may never have seen it."

"Are you just saying that to make yourself look better in comparison to the Auror's?" said Fenrir, half-teasing, half-serious. Harry grinned at him, and said, "I hardly need to say it - they do it pretty well on their own."

(Chapter 7 - End)

The Professor: And that's that. Chapter seven - done.

Ambrose: Yep, that's it from us this update. Make sure you leave some feedback - we really do need it, and it's very much appreciated. Read and review, guys!


End file.
